I Know Why Bears Crap in the Woods

A word to the reader... Normally, I'm a VERY modest person and don't even acknowledge bodily functions. So, as you're reading, keep two things in mind.... One: We all poop. And Two: Pigs are flying.

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I Know Why Bears Crap in the Woods: The Poop Chapter

Sometimes, I wondered if he actually thought that the rations should be enough, or if he simply decided to be as cruel as he could. But I think I always knew the answer. He always did love to make things difficult for us.

I never wondered if he followed his own rules, though. It wasn't possible. Maybe he thought he made it up for his number twoes by not having to use his number ones. Those were the times I've envied men's ability to stand to pee the most. (And that is the closest I've ever gotten to penile envy... thank you very much, Freud, you chauvenist.)

Two sheets for #1, and three sheets for #2. I suppose we were just lucky didn't follow the pattern of symmetry. One for One. Two for Two. But it was little comfort. Perhaps, if it had been two-ply there would have been a little more of an internal debate for me. (And my husband wonders why I always have a roll of toilet paper in my car and baby wipes in my purse!)

However, as it was only single-ply, the decision was easy. To this day, I thank God that neither my sister nor I reached puberty while we still lived there. And I refuse to think too much about my poor mother. In her early twenties with two kids and a toilet paper moratorium. I've never asked her, but I'm sure that was one of the challenges that had to rank for her back then.

And on top of it all to have no running water. Or electricity. We got our water from our twice monthly trips to the harbor master downtown where we filled up our gallon jugs at the spicket out front. We also got our twice monthly showers at the harbor master. And boy, did we learn early how to shower fast! One quarter got you about a minute of water, and we made good use of that quarter!

It wasn't that mom hadn't designed and built the most beautiful two-seater outhouse there's ever been. Because she did. Complete with the cut-out carving of the half moon on the door, that outhouse was practically a royal palace. Those wood panel walls always smelled much better than those plastic portable toilets they have at fairs and campgrounds, and the little screened-in window vents at the top did more than aerate the small enclosure.

Back then I didn’t mind sharing the toilet with my sister or mother. It was almost cozy. Sitting our two behinds over the two holes and looking out the moon shaped cut out on the door to watch the stars and smell the cold, cold night air. It was natural. Almost primal.

We also never had to worry that there wouldn't be a seat free if we had a toilet emergency. That was important. We may not have had running water or lights, but we had two toilets, doggonnit!

Most importantly, we had a buddy system! I'm not sure it's something many people would understand... a buddy system... for the toilet... You betcha! It was essential. In fact, it was expected, required by our parents for those nighttime wake ups that left your eyes swimming and your legs pinched together in a side-to-side swaying walk that we all know too well.

You see, in the winter, it was the ice you really had to watch out for. The outhouse wasn't exactly a doorway away... It was about a quarter of a mile away. And it was downhill.

You know that old story parents tell their kids? "When I was a kid, I had to walk to school in the snow and ice, and it was uphill both ways. I didn't have a coat..." You know how it goes.

Well, for us... it was true. Except it wasn't just a challenge to walk to school. Just going to the bathroom sometimes felt like a death-defying adventure!

Usually, the person in front would hold the flashlight, and their other hand was locked into a death grip with their bathroom buddy who walked behind them who would desperately grasp any bush or bramble or rock that they could use as leverage.

At least, that was the assumption. But most of the time, we girls just dropped to our behinds and pushed our freezing butts down the icy hill until we could relieve ourselves in the outhouse. You remember that scene in "Dumb and Dumber" where they're riding the motorcycle, and the one on back just lets his pee go? The moan of pleasure that they release as the warmth hits... Been there.

Then began the death-defying uphill climb back to bed. By the time we got ourselves in our beds, the cold had seeped to our bones, never to be expelled. And have you ever noticed that there's something about being cold that makes you have to pee? I learned that lesson way too early in life. Alas... long nights those were.

In the summer, the challenges were far less difficult... but far, far more dangerous. You see, in the summer in Alaska, coming face-t0-face with a bear is by no means a matter of if. It's a matter of when... and again. And the last thing you want to be surprised by when you're doing your pee-pee dance or your butt-squeeze run to the toilet is a big brown bear who just woke up from their six month long nap.

Therefore, the buddy system was mandatory. One person pees (or poops) while the other person stands guard. But it wasn't just bears we had to look out for. In fact, something a lot of tourists didn't get was that the moose were actually much more likely to attack. And boy, could they be just as dangerous. Thank the stars we didn't have to worry about snakes or venomous spiders... or the single thing that terrifies me the most... cockroaches! YUCK!

But there was one insect that we definitely did fear. You know, I've heard a lot of people complain about the mosquitos here in Texas. They've also claimed that the mosquito is the state bird of Texas... Now, don't get me wrong. They get pretty bad, but to speak the local language:

"Y'all just aint got no idea!"

We Alaskans know what state gets to claim the mosquito as its bird. And they aren't just big in Alaska. But they come in these swarms. Swarms like you've never seen before. People never believe me about this until I show them the videos of the hikers and bikers in the Arctic Circle being attacked by an absolute wall of mosquitos.

Well, if you think one or two mosquito bites are annoying, try going to the bathroom outside in peak Alaskan summer over a moist, smelly hole in the ground. (Do you understand why the vents at the top of the outhouse were screened?) You see, if you don't know, mosquitos breed in water. And the icy, snow-covered, always wet tundra of Alaska is the most hospitable place ever for those tiny monsters (not so tiny up there, though). And another place that they simply loved to breed... an outhouse. Oh yeah. They loved it. And so did the flies. Those two creatures quickly moved up the list and topped the bears and the moose for my most hated and feared animals.

So, already you must understand why I hated to use that outhouse. Mom worked awfully hard on it, and it had its place. But between the ice and bears, the mosquitos and flies, and the ridiculously inadequate rations of toilet paper...

Well, it's no surprise that I've always had a bathroom complex. An innately overwhelming anxiety about going to the bathroom, or especially, talking about going to the bathroom. It's not an easy tale to share. But it still makes me laugh. The absurdity of it.

And still, the worst part of it all for me was the buddy part. I was the baby of the family, so that rule especially applied to me. But what three-year-old wants to be responsible for waking up their family at three in the morning to hike it up and down an icy path in negative twenty degree weather? Poor mom never got rest in those years as it was. When she did finally drift into blessed dreamland, I wasn't going to be the one to disturb her. My big sis was only a couple years older than me, and she was a big grump when she was woken up. And dad? That was out of the question. Even if he hadn't been... well, terrifying... what little girl wants to wake up her father in the middle of the night to walk her to the bathroom? Not this one, that's for sure!

Unlike the outhouse, however, the woods were only a few feet away. And there was no hill to descend or ascend to get to them. Mom and dad were big campers too, so we'd learned very young how to squat in the woods. And in Alaska, there were always tree branches and stumps to use as a makeshift seat. It wasn't difficult to find a comfy, cozy, hidden nook to do one's business.

The mosquitos were thinner in the woods sometimes, ironically. And if you did surprise a moose or bear, the trees provided protection if you couldn't run the twenty feet to the back door of the cabin quickly enough.

(Survival Hint: For moose, you just circle and circle and circle the tree until they tire out. For black and brown bears, aka grizzlies... well, you can try to climb the tree or run, but you'll soon learn they're faster than you at both, so that's about when you roll into a ball, cover the back of your neck with your hands, and kiss your bare bottom goodbye! Or... you could be a real Alaskan and kick the bear's Arse all the way back to it's cave!)

But we Alaskan kids knew how to survive. We were tough. We were trained. And we were big on adventure. And there was one more thing we were... we were informed on our local plantlife.

You see, Alaska is chock full of moss and lychens. All over the trees and the ground. And let me tell you something. Moss is one hell of a butt wipe! Soft, plush, spongy, but dense enough to not disintegrate. All of those things are something that single-ply toilet paper is most assuredly Not!

And unlike the rationed two or three sheets of off-brand single-ply, there was no shortage of moss. There were also a plethora of ferns to choose from. Alaska has more than thirty types of ferns in its forests: Basic maidenhair and horsetail ferns a plenty, giant ferm fronds, and my absolute favorite and number one choice of toilet paper substitute: The wonderful Fiddlehead Fern!

Most people who know of fiddleheads think about food when they see them. They're a fairly common choice for locals and natives where they grow. Pickled, boiled in soup, or just fresh off the vine... they're delicious.

But a lesser known use for fiddleheads is my favorite quality about them. You see fiddlehead ferns are a bit like moss. They're very soft, almost fuzzy, they're large, they're densely packed in their spiral shape, and they're easy to find!

So, that's how I discovered a love of pooping in the woods. I mean, given my choices, can you blame me? An ucy death climb into a frozen and smelly outhouse with two tiny, pathetic slices of quick-disintegrating toilet paper, or a brief jaunt to the woods with the trees and moss and lychen for cover and comfort, and leaves and lychens galore for wiping my little bottom!? Plus, in the winter, the snow acted as a cleanser and a buffer to the ground...

For me, the choice was easy. The sharing of the tale... a little harder. But in the long run... everybody poops. And if I have my choice of a porcelain throne (or a styrofoam one) or a soft, green cushion of foliage... well, I guess you now know the answer.

So, when somebody asks me, "do bears crap in the woods?" My answer is, "they sure do. And so do I!"

(But not in Texas because I don’t actually have a death wish! Give me bears and moose and mosquitoes over snakes and spiders, scorpions, cockroaches, and ticks any single day of the week!!)